This poem was written immediately after my attendance at the recent funeral of a well respected former work colleague.
As we filed out from the exit door of the crematorium
we bunched in the tiny courtyard, held back by
personal reminiscences being quietly gifted
to the grieving family’s appointed mourner,
a sense of déjà vu slowly focused.
The architecture and placement of the subdued
reminded me of the moment and exact location
when fourteen years before, at my fathers cremation
the funeral director had sidled up to me in agitation
straining to maintain his operational control, he rasped
“What do you want done with father’s ashes?”
This serious omission from the agreed protocol
demanded an immediate and concise decision.
Summoning all my tact, I approached my mother,
alarmed that at this moment of her public grief
I must remind her of her husband’s combustion.
Would she cope with this untimely interruption?
The surprise and shock was mine, as calmly she replied
“ Leave him here boy, I don’t want him home with me.”
Not a memory I could share with the current mourners.
Ken, thanks for your comment, a great follow on for unexpected humour at funerals.
My brother died aged 32 in 1984. Just before we set off to the funeral, a man arrived at the door dressed in brown corduroy trousers and wearing a grey turtle neck sweater. He was holding a Tesco carrier bag. I decided I needed to get rid of him as quickly as I could, but before I had the chance, he offered his hand and introduced himself. It seemed that he was conducting the service. He sat in the front of the car, clutching his Tesco’s bag and saying a few prayers. On arrival at the church, he went into a small room and emerged, resplendent in his robes, but minus the carrier bag. After the service, which was very good, he went back into the room and emerged, not so resplendent in the cord trousers and turtle neck sweater, clutching his carrier. I looked at Mum and smiled. ‘ Tony would have seen the funny side of that ‘ she said.